


Body of Knowledge

by Mouse10



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - College/University, Blood and Injury, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Drugs, First Kiss, Homosexuality, Johnlock-Freeform, M/M, Overdosing, References to Drugs, TJLC | The Johnlock Conspiracy, Teenlock, University Student John Watson, University Student Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-31 14:55:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 8,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20116930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mouse10/pseuds/Mouse10
Summary: In the hot seat,  John tries to reassure Mycroft that Sherlock is in good hands.This is a WIP. Warnings for possible editing on the fly.





	1. When is dinner not at all dinner

John Watson stopped at the foot of the stairs. Heart hammering in his chest and just slightly nauseous, he tried to steel his features and calm his nerves. He needed to get control of himself ahead of his impending confrontation with Sherlock and he had just 17 steps to do it. 

Why did it have to be a confrontation? Why couldn't it be a nice, friendly discussion? Or a chat?

He waited, breathless. If he went ahead and barged into the flat, John was sure that Sherlock would immediately know. Undoubtedly, Sherlock'd see something on his face, or the way his shoulders were tensed up. 

How could he not? 

John was now lightheaded on the stair and hyperventilating. He bowed his head and looked at his shoes, white knuckles gripping the banister.

Calmdowncalmdowncalmdown.

He glanced at his wristwatch. He was an hour later than usual and that would have to be explained....it had been an hour that changed his life, to be sure.

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John got out of class 40 minutes early and could not believe his luck. Half way through the lecture, the professor was interrupted by a visitor to class. The visitor knocked politely on the class door, opened it and handed the professor a note on a white piece of paper. The class was quiet, waiting for the professor to speak. 

He unfolded the stiff cardstock and appeared to read it. Looking up, his face pale, his voice strained, "I-I'm sorry, but it appears that I have been called away on urgent business. Please do not alarm yourselves, and have a nice weekend." The bespectacled professor smiled weakly and after gathering his belongings, shoveling them carelessly into his briefcase, abruptly left the class. 

Surprised, the students turned and murmured to each other, but wasted no time collecting their books and emptying the lecture hall. 

Despite the oddness of the situation, this was a great beginning to the weekend. An early reprieve!! As John walked home, he felt light on his feet. Not the typical trudging home from class on Friday evening to face a mountain of work. Uncharacteristically, all his school work was accounted for and he had nothing on for the next few days. John could think of nothing better than mindlessly being at home with no work. He was looking forward to enjoying himself. Trip to the pub, maybe.

Turning onto his block, John stopped abruptly when he spied a distant but familiar figure standing in front of the door to his flat. The flat he shared with Sherlock. 

Sherlock's brother, Mycroft. Just standing. Waiting.

John slowed his pace. Could Mycroft be waiting for him? This can't be good, he thought. He glance behind him. No one. There were no other menacing figures in the street, apart from Mycroft himself. 

For just one fleeting moment, John considered turning on his heel and running in the other direction, but Mycroft's steely grey eyes had already spied him.

Bugger.

John finally reached Sherlock's brother and stopped right in front of him. The street was quiet.

Mycroft Holmes leaned nonchalantly on his umbrella. His face was unreadable but he gave off an air of effortless calm. Tall and thin, with a straight back and squarish shoulders, his bespoke suit hung on him perfectly and creased in all the right places. He looked for all the world like Baker Street was the only placed he wished to be, but John knew different.

"Good afternoon, John." Mycroft said pleasantly, a tight smile on his lips. Mycroft made eye contact with John briefly, but otherwise was staring at the contact point of the tip of his umbrella and the pavement. 

" 'Afternoon, Mycroft," John stood in front of Mycroft, bookbag slung over his shoulder. John took a quick glance up at the second story flat windows. Not a stir. 

At this point, John was fairly certain it was him that Mycroft had come to see. How disappointing. /p> 

After a moment of awkward silence, Mycroft uncharacteristically looked down at his shoes, "John, would you mind terribly, if we go for a walk?" His voice was soft. 

John's shoulders slumped, he wanted to avoid spending time with Mycroft Holmes if he could, "Well, Mycroft, I...I..."

Mycroft's cheeks flushed a bright pink and he seemed uncomfortable, but undeterred, "Or, a ride then?" he gestured to a waiting sedan expectantly. Sounds like this was no longer a question. John was pretty certain he wasn't getting out of this one.

"...you're not going to kidnap me or beat me senseless, are you?" John asked, only half joking.

"One can never be sure, John." Mycroft sighed and smiled weakly. He opened the sedan door for John to get in. 

"...was that a joke, Mycroft?" John asked. 

"Perhaps," Mycroft answered softly. John knew somehow this was serious business, Mycroft was being far too nice. 

John got into the long black car. He had known his flatmate Sherlock for exactly one year now, and on the 4 different occasions that he saw Sherlock's brother.....there was always a reason for his appearance. Never a social call. Mycroft Holmes was much too important to do any social calls. 

"Is everything ok?" John ventured, quite worried. 

"Actually, yes," Mycroft answered, elegantly sliding in after John. "Well it is--yes, now."

Now.

The driver smoothly pulled away from the kerb and in a few blocks, not far from Baker street at all, pulled the car in front of a local restaurant, with no apparent directions given by John's host. 

"I think this conversation is better had in private." Mycroft smoothly got out of the sedan. "Feel free to leave your napsack on the seat." 

"Oh, I'm coming back then," John continues with the joke. 

"Oh certainly. You have my word." Mycroft nodded, distracted. Despite his ludicrous situation, John somehow felt he may be on the right side of this one. Despite being plucked from the sidewalk, he relaxed a bit.

Mycroft whisked him into a small but elegant restaurant. John had never been here before, even with Sherlock. Small tables were spread with white linen tablecloths and glittering silver. Small arrangements of fresh flowers dotted the tables. Despite the fact that there were no other people in the place, John felt very under-dressed in his t shirt and blue jeans.

"Please don't concern yourself with anything John, the owners are very close friends of mine." The restaurant was entirely empty except for one waiter, who showed them to a table and filled the water glasses. 

Of course, Mycroft sensed his discomfort. 

John sighed. As they sat down, the waiter brought a bottle of wine and a basket of bread. 

"Mycroft--are we...?"

"No, were not here for dinner John, this is just a friendly....conversation. Please feel free to have anything on the menu, but I won't be eating."

John doubted that there were ever friendly conversations with Mycroft Holmes. He didn't know much about his flatmate's brother, apart from the fact that he worked at some high level for the British government and didn't always see eye to eye with his younger brother. John had a sinking feeling in his stomach but could not hide the fact that he was truly starving. 

There was nothing for it. John started to eat the dinner rolls and butter and when the wine was poured, he downed a glass in less than a minute. 

With his mind apparently elsewhere, Mycroft did not appear to notice John empty the generous glass of red wine. 

"I feel I must apologize for interrupting your afternoon so abruptly, John."

"Mycroft, I'm sure you have your reasons, but it's ok, I'm starving," John managed, mouth full.

"Well, when dealing with Sherlock," Mycroft waved his hand, letting John's knowledge of his flatmate finish the statement. 

Sherlock.

Who was back at the flat...thought John. He glanced down at his wristwatch, still early. 

Mycroft sighed, it seemed he found it difficult to begin. Still eating, John was at turns at ease and then uncomfortable, his thoughts turning to Sherlock, very likely waiting for him back at the flat. 

As if reading John's thoughts, Mycroft jumped in, "Oh no, Sherlock does not know you are here with me. But since you are out early from class, that will give us at least 30 minutes leeway, correct?"

John nodded, mouth full of bread, not wanting to really give much thought to just how Mycroft knew his schedule. 

Mycroft cleared his throat and re-adjusted himself in his seat. "Well, on with it then, yes?"

He seemed to be giving himself some encouragement. Steeling himself...for what??

Was it something he was afraid to tell John or afraid to ask John?

After John had three dinner rolls and one and a half glasses of red wine, Mycroft began to speak.

"John....I am extremely concerned about my brother. He...despite his strengths--undoubtedly which you are well aware, his...his gifts, he...um, there is a side to him, that. that, I..." Mycroft trailed off, fiddling with a silver fork from the table.

"John, I... I want to caution you..."

"Now?" John felt the need to interrupt.

Mycroft's head snapped up. He looked at John sharply. "Well yes, now. Especially now." 

Mycroft's eyes were daggers full of meaning.

Momentarily confused, John could feel his cheeks going red with something he could not quite put together. 

Mycroft's voice was dark and steady as he stared at the silver fork in his hands, "I don't want you to think for one moment that you are the first...person...whom Sherlock has taken a liking to."

Oops.

Oh, Mycroft knows.

He knows.

But how? How? 

To be fair, it just happened and then... didn't really happen at all, really.

John's throat was dry from too many dinner rolls, his eyes narrowed, "Mycroft, are you spying? Spying on the flat?" That would be too much for John to bear. 

"No." Mycroft cleared his throat, "To be honest, I don't really know or care what you two are getting up to. But I do know my brother."

There, it was out. 

Someone knew the secret. 

Mycroft knew.


	2. An introduction of sorts

It happened about a week before John's confrontation with Mycroft. 

John was happy to find a flatshare. Starting uni a few years after the rest of his mates, he didn't know anyone who needed a flatmate and didn't want to live in the residence halls with the freshers. A chance meeting with Mike, an old school mate and and hour or two at the pub, commiserating about how expensive London was lead to his meeting Sherlock Holmes. Coincidentally, Sherlock needed a flatmate, too and had already been working on letting one on Baker Street. John wanted this to work, he would saving loads of money sharing.

Overall, things had been going well, but the first 6 months of living with Sherlock were a settling in period, to say the least. 

To be perfectly honest, Sherlock Homes was the most eccentric person that John Watson had ever met in his life.

Directly after finishing secondary school John enlisted in the army. Despite his short time there, he found himself enjoying the regimented lifestyle. Early to bed and early to rise, John found himself accomplishing many things. 

Now out if the military, John was unlikely to stay up late at night because of classes. He had regular study hours at the library and ate regular meals. Sherlock, on the other hand, stayed up all hours reading, or staring into his microscope. John was an early riser and Sherlock would often sleep in until very late, if he went to bed at all. 

Sometimes John wasn't quite sure what his new flatmate was up to, to be honest. Sometimes Sherlock was in the same position when John woke in the morning as he left him when he went to bed the night before. Sherlock could be gone from the flat for hours on end, showing up in the early morning as if he had been out all night (he had). John was not sure if Sherlock ever ate a meal, having rarely seen him do so. 

With such irregular schedules and habits, the boys only occasionally would cross paths. John found that his flatmate preferred the quiet and rarely spoke. John felt he could not complain because Sherlock was not at all disruptive. 

Then something changed. Sherlock was home more often. John, who enjoyed cooking, would make plenty of food, and to John's surprise, Sherlock joined him in a meal or two. 

John would come home from class to find Sherlock at the table peering deeply into his microscope. Without asking, Sherlock would put it away and John would make dinner.

With Sherlock home more, John was privy to information about what Sherlock was doing with Scotland Yard. Scotland Yard of all things! John was there to overhear phone calls, requests for help and arguments with Detective Lestrade. John was continually surprised to overhear the things his flatmate got involved in. 

Eventually weekends were spent with both boys tackling Sherlock's 'projects' with Scotland Yard, and both of them now getting home at all hours. Despite the late nights interfering with getting to early classes, John was having fun.

Those were the days John found Sherlock to be easy, serious and intense as always, but easy. 

John certainly lost track of time those nights, staying up well past the time he should have gone to bed, just to listen to Sherlock talk about the cases, or current events (if they involved crime, certainly). They were often up late into the night discussing the events of the day, usually relaxing on the sofa with a beer (John) or a whiskey over ice (Sherlock).

As John spent more and more time with his flatmate, his attendance and class work started to suffer a bit. 

And then John Watson came to realize that spending time with Sherlock Holmes was one of his favorite things.


	3. A crack in the case

Sherlock seemed delighted to explain things to John. Lengthy explanations, detailed descriptions, vivid accounts. John was often enthralled listening to his flatmate. There were a few times he found it difficult to keep up, but tried to hold his own, ask questions or offer an opinion or two. 

It was well past midnight and they were sitting on the sofa, Sherlock on the far side closer to the window. John had positioned himself in the middle of the sofa. Sherlock had his back up against the arm rest, one of his long legs stretched out on the floor and the other resting on the cushions bent at an angle. 

...each of them had a customary drink in hand and were discussing a current case that Sherlock had been describing ..with an accompanying blood stain pattern analysis--and John was struggling to keep up with his flatmate's brilliant mind. 

He was listening, he was, really. John had turned himself on the sofa to look at Sherlock. He heard the words and Sherlock was pretty animated, gesturing at times to punctuate the story, his eyes glittering with excitement. John found him self lost in Sherlock's words, watching him speak, looking at his eyes, his lips and how the top few buttons of his shirt were opened to show his long, smooth neck.

john could feel his cheeks flushing and catching himself, quickly looked down into his beer, shaking the liquid inside the glass. He swallowed hard.

Sherlock had gotten up abruptly to get a journal article to show John. John lifted his head, watching him get up, gracefully crossing the sitting room, full of energy even after a long day, his long legs making the room seem smaller than it was. The boys had shoes off and Sherlock's shirttails were pulled out of his trousers. When he returned to the sofa, John noticed he was flushed from the excitement and his eyes were shining as he continued to explain the article. 

Sherlock sat down more towards the middle of the sofa, right next to John, shoulders touching, so they both could look more closely at the graph. 

Sitting closely, both of their heads bent over the article to see the chart, Sherlock put his drink on the coffee table. He turned the pages excitedly, pointed to a chart containing splatter patterns and the forces, specific weapons and associated trauma in a very neatly organized chart. 

"...and see here John, the results of this study where they show each type of weapon and....." John was quiet as Sherlock continued. "Look, if you follow along the x axis..."

Sherlock looked up to see John looking at him. 

Just looking at him. Quiet. Blank. Surprised?

Sherlock blinked, "What?"

John looked down, cheeks red. "Nothing." He looked away and took a long gulp of his beer. 

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, "That was not 'nothing', John. I clearly saw your thoughts-- turn. You were not thinking about blood stain pattern analysis. You were not following my thoughts along the x axis."

No, John's thoughts were following another axis entirely.

"Sorry, I wasn't." John cleared his throat, struggling to gain control of his features. He didn't want Sherlock to think that he was actually looking at him. /p> 

"Whatever were you thinking about? You looked white as a sheet and your eyes, your eyes were..." Sherlock turned away, furrowing his brow. 

Sherlock, even Sherlock was not sure.

"Sorry, really, it was nothing," John said and jumped up from the sofa. "I think I need another drink or..or...." maybe I don't...(maybe I shouldn't drink at all, honestly,) John thought. 

Drinking more is a mistake right now. John got himself another beer. 

"Your behaving rather oddly, John."

"I'm ...sorry. It's nothing really, Sherlock, it's fine, please go on."

John sat back down on the sofa with his freshened drink and tried in vain to listen to Sherlock explain the chart.....

"John, it's ok if your not interested in the article or the chart...." Sherlock sighed, sinking back onto the sofa cushions. 

"No, no, I'm interested." John said slowly. 

Sherlock put the journal down on the table.

The air was heavy in the flat, there were no traffic sounds from the street-- it was late and they had a few drinks, but they were not at all drunk. 

"John, I'm afraid that you really were not giving proper attention to just how..." 

As Sherlock looked up, he realized John was staring at him. More specifically, John was staring at his lips as he was talking.

John kept staring and leaned a bit forward.

Sherlock tried get him back into the conversation.

"To... to just how..." Sherlock was confused, "John I..."

John whispered, 'It's ok," and leaned in and their lips met briefly.

Both surprised, they pulled apart quickly.

John looked serious. 

"I... I've never done that." John stated.

"Kissed anyone?" Sherlock asked now feeling quite numb at the turn of events. 

"No, kissed a bloke before." John answered.

"And?" Sherlock's head spun and he felt dizzy. 

"No it's fine, it's good, very good," and John leaned in and kissed him again, this time more insistently. 

Sherlock abruptly jumped up. His voice was barely above a whisper. "Um sorry, this has to stop, I don't...I don't understand what's going on and...goodnight, John."

Sherlock Holmes, who understood the things that other people did not, was surprised and confused. He walked away and closed his bedroom door firmly. 

John stood up and stared at the silent, heavy door that now separated him from Sherlock. He walked over to the door and gently tapped on it, hoping that Sherlock would talk. 

The door and the person behind it, were silent. 

John was surprised. For a moment there, he thought it had been going very well.


	4. Dinner?

It was the most monumentally stupid thing that John had ever done. He made up his mind he'd apologize in the morning. There was nothing for it, Sherlock would not answer him. John went to his bedroom, flopped onto the bed and buried his head in the pillow. Serves him right that Sherlock didn't just punch him in the face. 

But, he didn't--he didn't punch him. 

He ran.

And now he wouldn't speak to him.

Damn! John flipped over onto his back. He should not have done it. 

On the other hand, John had a small, secret, guilty pleasure hidden deep away that he did.

He smiled in the darkness.

Maybe, just maybe.

John felt he had to take the chance. He could just blame the alcohol...or just plain stupidity. He had done plenty of stupid things in his life, this was just one of them. 

Sherlock was a mystery. In all the months they had lived in the same flat, John had never, not once, seen him with anyone else but Lestrade. And that was for work. 

And if truth be told, he and Lestrade didn't get on that famously, anyway.

Sherlock didn't talk about friends or dates or social activities of any kind. 

He often came home late, went straight to his room and shut the door. If John looked at him quizzically, he would occasionally utter, "Case."

He would take off his gloves, carefully hang up his coat, disappear into his room and John would not see him until morning. 

John on the other hand, had a few dates wedged in between classes and studying, he went out with Mary from the library and Shannon from class. Nothing serious. He also had his eye on a pretty girl at a local coffee shop, but that wasn't going anywhere fast. 

One evening, a few weeks before, John barged into the flat, arms loaded with books. He was exhausted after handing in 3 grueling research papers. 

Sherlock was sitting in a chair reading and looked up when John came in the door. 

"Hungry?" Sherlock asked, liquidly getting up from his chair. He gracefully crossed the room to stand right in front of John. He stood just a tad too close.

"Always." sighed John, tossing his books on the other chair. 

"Let me take you to dinner." Sherlock stated, matter of factly, staring down at John. There was just a hint of a smile curling his lips.

"Well yeah, great but, why?" Sherlock had never done something like this before and John was too tired to play games. 

Sherlock backed away slightly and looked down at his feet, quiet. "After your difficult week, I thought maybe you'd like a...night out...or...dinner." he explained, shrugging. 

He stepped away from John, crossing to the other side of the room. 

"Besides," he said grabbing his coat and flashing a silver credit card and a bigger smile, "...it's on my brother."

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John didn't much care where Sherlock was taking him. With Sherlock's vast knowledge of London, John just followed along whether they were walking or getting in and out of cabs. 

It was one of the nicest Chinese restaurants John had ever been to, but John was disappointed that the menu was in only Chinese. 

"Oh sorry," Sherlock said, finding another menu on the table that was in English and handing it to John. 

"The chicken is good." Sherlock pointed to one of the entres on the menu.

John decided to go with that because it was easiest. Sherlock ordered for them both in Mandarin, much to John's amazement. 

After the waiter left, John sat, eyes wide with astonishment, speechless.

Sherlock laughed, "It's nothing John, really--I had a few pinyin lessons as a child." he waived his hand dismissively. "Not enough, really. I'm quite rusty."

The food was delicious and John was stuffed about half way through. 

Sherlock ate about a quarter of what was on his plate and the rest of the time sat sipping hot tea and watching John eat. 

"Well, go on then." Sherlock said, eventually.

"What? John asked.

"I know you have questions."

"About you?"

"Obviously."

John laughed. He was noticing often enough how Sherlock could be a prat. 

Sherlock was pretty happy to talk about himself, even though he was not very wordy.

John had endless questions. How did he get involved with Scotland Yard? Where did he go to school? When did he finish? Where did his family live?

John entertained himself with these superficial questions, but there were other, more burning questions that he was reluctant to ask. 

But he had to. As closed-mouthed and obstinate as Sherlock was, he may never get another chance. 

"So..." John began, almost afraid. "I...um...are you dating anyone?" he picked up his fork again, playing with his chicken.

Sherlock was silent.

"No." he finally said, after a long, difficult pause. 

"Oh. So...recent nasty breakup with girlfriend, then?" John tried, smiling.

John thought maybe Sherlock snickered a bit, but he couldn't really tell. 

"No." Sherlock answered. "...not my area, really." 

John felt a punch in the stomach. What did that mean? He looked up immediately and met Sherlock's eyes.

"I'm not interested in relationships, John, I have my work." 

And that was the end of the conversation. 

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	5. Late nights and alleyways

"Mycroft it's, it's...not, it's just--we... we..."John didn't know where to start to explain himself, to explain Sherlock, to explain them. 

John did not have the words. 

Mycroft put his hand up to silence him. "Please John, there's nothing to explain, I just wanted to caution you, that if my brother is in a relationship with you, it's because he feels something for you and it's not at all....." he paused as he searched for the right word, "...trivial." 

Mycroft continued.

"It's just a caution, that's all, but I wanted you to get the message very, very clear. If this is a fling or--or an experiment..." He shook his head and stared at the table. Now it was Mycroft's turn to flounder with words, "It's best to call things off....early."

John could not meet Mycroft's eyes. He stared at the tablecloth. it was one thing to be found out and quite another to be accused of being insincere and shallow.

What did Mycroft know? He hardly knew John.

Mycroft didn't give John a chance to defend himself. 

"--Sherlock did have one other, I might say, significant relationship that ended-- obviously-- badly, I might add."

Mycroft's voice lowered to a whisper. 

"Sherlock then spent 3 months in rehab facility."

John was listening and no longer hungry.

"After a drug overdose." 

Stunned silence. 

"Sherlock, of course, will be reluctant to tell you, but I'm just speaking as an over protective older brother."

John was silent, presently unable to digest his food, he was just digesting what Mycroft told him. 

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Living with Sherlock meant living with his obsessions. 

There were times when working with Scotland Yard was boring. No bad guys, no chases no excitement. But the occasional chase though the wet streets of London ended up being actually really dangerous. 

Those nights were the best. John had never felt so alive. Well, he had come close to the same feeling in the army, a feeling of purpose and vitality, but his military stint was cut short when barely a year in, he got shot in the shoulder.

On one particular icy London night, a suspected bank robber had led them on a chase through one too many dark alleys. John had the sneaking suspicion the criminal was leading them somewhere. 

Hot on the criminal's tail, despite shouts from Lestrade to "Leave it to the Yard!" the boys caught up with him in another dark alleyway. Almost too dark to see, John just barely made out that the criminal hopped into a waiting car about 500 feet in front of him. 

Too bad there was only one exit from the alley. 

The criminal put the car into reverse. 

John was barreling towards the car when it started speeding toward him--backwards. 

"John stop! he's reversing!" Shouted Sherlock, who was catching up from behind. John realized too late and was unable to get out of harm's way. 

Too late to move---the car was about 1 foot away from John when he felt both of his shoulders being grabbed forcefully and he was lifted up. He was pulled into a narrow doorway--just barely escaping being run over. 

Sherlock, just in the nick of time--grabbed John and pulled them both into the doorway as the car sped by.

Shaken, John leaned his head onto the front of Sherlock's chest. Sherlock still had both of his gloved hands caught around the upper part of John's arms and both of them stood there, just breathing. 

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked. 

"No." John answered truthfully. Then he laughed.

John looked up to see Sherlock looking at him concerned. 

"My god Sherlock, how'd you have the presence of mind to do that?"

"Nonsense John, that was just instinctual. You'd have done the same for me." 

"Well, thanks."

"Of course."

Lestrade found them and they stepped out of the doorway no longer shaking. 

"Well thanks for keeping tabs on him boys, the other police car pinned him in the alley and there taking him in now. You two really helped us keep tabs on him. We'd have lost him other wise."

"Anytime, inspector," said Sherlock.

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	6. It's for a case

Three months after John moved in with Sherlock, he went on his first date with Mary.

John never expected to see Sherlock at the pub, but there he was, sitting- he never sits-- and talking even-- he never talks. John didn't see him when he came in, but he must've been there already--sitting and talking to a group of people that John didn't know. 

As John stared, he saw Sherlock throw his head back and laugh-- harder and longer than John had ever seen, as a matter of fact, John had never seen him laugh at all. 

But John couldn't see well--the pub was crowded. He leaned to the side and squinted, trying to see. Ducking his head down, trying to see in between other peoples heads, he realized this was impossible. He had been talking to Mary or rather he had been listening to Mary tell a story about class--or a friend or work or something....

Sherlock was holding a pint of beer. Sherlock doesn't drink beer.....John frowned. 

Mary leaned to the side trying to catch John's eye as he was staring over her shoulder.  
"John!! What are you looking at?" She laughed incredulously and swung her head around to see what he was gaping at. 

From this point, it was hard to tell. The pub was packed with college kids and young professionals from the city. 

The music in the pub was loud. John's ears were ringing. 

John dodged Mary's question. He stood up. "I'm getting another pint," he touched her on the shoulder, "Can I get you one, too?" he smiled.

"Sure," Mary said, frowning. She sat in the booth and watched John walk away. She still had half a beer left. So did he. 

And then it all happened so quickly--and unexpectedly. John turned just in time to witness the conversation Sherlock was involved in turn into an argument. A moment later, John saw Sherlock get punched squarely in the nose by a big burly bloke and fall to the floor. 

"Jesus Christ!" John said, under his breath, as he ran over to the far side of the pub. 

Pushing his way past the on-lookers, by the time John got to Sherlock, he was sitting up a bit, leaning on one elbow and holding his nose. He was not making any moves to stand. 

Having been punched in the face a few times himself, John thought Sherlock was stunned. 

John could see that Sherlock's hand was full of blood and it had gushed all over the front of his shirt. 

The noise level in the pub reached a crescendo, on lookers were shouting and arguing with each other, someone threatened to call the police.

No one noticed John bend down and touch Sherlock on the arm. 

"Oi, Sherlock," he said. Sherlock didn't respond at first--it took a few tries.

Sherlock looked up. His eyes were both watering and he had blood caked on the left side of his face and nose. A slight bruise was forming under his right eye. 

He squinted, "John?" his voice was very hoarse. 

"Yeah, are you ok? Right-that's stupid. I know your not ok. Can you stand? I think I can get you out of here, but I can't lift you."

"I think so." Sherlock said, and stood up. "Just keep me away from Sebastian Moran." 

"Was that the bloke that hit you?"

"Yep."

The scene had erupted into a brawl. Several people were pushing, punching and kicking. there was tremendous yelling and screaming. The police finally arrived. 

John and Sherlock backed out of the central area, and while everyone was involved in the melee, made their way to the door. 

John wondered if Sherlock should go to hospital. He want sure if the had lost consciousness when he hit the floor. 

John saw Mary and waved at her. "Let's get the bloody hell out of here!" 

"What the hell happened?" Mary asked. 

"I think someone said Liverpool was better than Manchester." Sherlock offered, still holding his nose. 

John knew he was alright.


	7. The Ties that Bind

Sherlock and John walked Mary to her flat, but they didn't go in. 

By the time they had walked the few blocks, Sherlock's gait was unsteady, but he would not admit to it. 

"Nonsense John, I'm fine." he protested as he swayed. John insisted he sit down on the steps leading to Mary's building. Sherlock sat down and leaned his head back against the red bricks as he held his nose again. 

John realized that Sherlock had a more than a few drinks before he got hit in the face.

Mary weakly insisted that they come in, but was secretly relieved when they didn't. Fearing that bloodied Sherlock would also be sick in her flat, she was just happy to see them go. 

The boys eventually made it to Baker Street. Occupied with steadying Sherlock, John did not see the long black car parked in front. 

John's heart hit the floor when he opened the door to see that some one was in the siting room.

"Bloody hell, who are you?" John practically shouted at the well dressed young man sitting in one of the chairs. 

Sherlock walked in and wearily sat on the sofa, seemingly oblivious to the intruder. His nose has started bleeding again and he was holding it with his right hand.

"Oh pay him no mind," Sherlock said dismissively, as he waved his unoccupied arm at him. 

"The hell I won't! You can't just come barging into someone else's flat! How'd you get in here? I'm calling the police!" He made his way to the phone. 

"Wait, John." Sherlock protested quietly from the sofa.

John turned around abruptly on his way to the phone. His shoulders slumped. "Don't tell me you know this arsehole?"

The man in the chair was quietly watching the scene in front of him, a slight smile on his lips. 

Sherlock's voice was quiet nasal as the swelling of his nose worsened.

"This arsehole is my brother."


	8. A confrontation

John flipped back onto his stomach.... blame the alcohol-

John thought about the closed bedroom door, and now they were having an argument.

Well, it was not exactly an argument.

It was far from an argument. 

Was it an argument?

Was he wrong? -Did he imagine that he and Sherlock felt something?... maybe had something? He closed his eyes and thought again to the kiss, tentative, slow, soft, yet eager. The hair on the back of his neck started to prickle... God, Sherlock. 

Incensed, John sat bolt upright in the bed and -punched the pillow, Damn!!-- he wasn't wrong, he knew it!

He could feel it deep in his bones and elsewhere-

He fell forcefully back onto his pillow with a thump. /p>

Jesus H. Christ, what a fucking situation.

Normally, he'd pat himself on the back pulling off such a daring move. After an enjoyable evening, conversation and drinks, a kiss, just a simple kiss. 

...it works on-

Girls--it works on girls, John-he chided himself, covering his face with his hands in the dark room. He could feel his cheeks burning under his hands. John had to admit he had not been in this exact situation before. With a lad or anyone like-- Like--- Anyone like Sherlock. 

Something like this may not work on lads or Sherlock or maybe Sherlock just didn't...anything...with anyone? 

In John's experience, he did not get much rejection on the dating front. Here and there maybe, but lots more 'yeses' than 'nos'.

John sat up in bed, damn. He put Sherlock off, that was it. He shouldn't have said anything. He should have let the kiss speak for itself, let the kiss speak for him. Or, or maybe----

Sherlock being so bloody elusive about his personal life and this would just force the issue-and, well, what of it?

What of it indeed, John.

```````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````< Eventually, John fell into a fitful sleep worrying all night about.... The kiss.

Was it a kiss or was it a question that his inscrutable flatmate would have to answer?

The ball was squarely in Sherlock's court. John was the one who took the chance, made the first move and now he'd just have to wait and see.

After a year of living with Sherlock, John felt no closer to knowing how he'd react than the day they met. 

But when John awoke, Sherlock was gone. John woke up at 10am, far later than usual.

The flat was quiet. 

John sat down in the kitchen with a hot cup of tea and rummaged around the cupboards to see if any biscuits were left. 

The flat door opened. 

Sherlock came in, took off his coat and uncharacteristically tossed it over the closest chair. 

He turned and looked into the kitchen.

"John! Good morning." he was smiling. The hair prickled on the back of John's neck again, what was this? Sherlock was not know to be chipper, so who was this oddly pleasant person?

Sherlock walked into the sitting room. "I have a meeting with Lestrade today, you're welcome to come along, of course." Big smile. 

Well, there'll be none of that! thought John. This was just plain weird. p> 

John jumped up and walked out of the kitchen towards Sherlock.

He raised his voice, "What's going on?"

Sherlock frowned, "I was just saying, you are welcome to come along...to the meeting." 

"Well--I'm not falling for it, Sherlock"

Sherlock looked annoyed, rolling his eyes, "Falling for what, exactly?"

"Your avoidance."

Sherlock stood stiffly with his hands in his pockets. He looked down at his feet, but continued talking. 

"If you are referring to last night--and I'm afraid that you are, it's fine--we can forget it. It's forgotten, actually." he said, shrugging. 

John stood in his rumpled t-shirt and track pants and stared at Sherlock in silence, thinking. 

"Well, are you getting dressed or not?" Sherlock looked up, no longer staring at his feet. His voice was full of irritation, but his eyes were unreadable. 

John did not answer. He just stared at his flatmate. 

Sherlock continued softly, "It's fine, I can go myself." and spun on his heel towards the door. 

But John made for the door, too. 

John got there just in time to grab hold of the doorknob at the same time Sherlock did.

Sherlock looked at both of their hands on the doorknob, not saying anything.

"Aren't you forgetting you coat, Mr. Holmes?" John ventured gently.

Sherlock sighed and looked down again, he would not meet John's eyes. "What do you want, John?" he asked quietly. 

John wanted to be very careful about the answer. 

"Maybe.... I-I don't know...really, but I do know that I'd like to talk about it. With you."

John released the doorknob and leaned against the edge of the door and the doorframe. There was nothing he wanted more than just to reach over and place his warm hand on top of Sherlock's, but he was afraid Sherlock would bolt. John cleared his throat. "Will you stay? and talk to me?"

"There's nothing to talk about." Sherlock said matter of factly, still staring down at the doorknob. 

"I think there is." John crossed his arms in front of his chest. 

"Sherlock please, just hear me out. There lots of things I don't know, I really don't, but I'm going to be really fucking brave and just tell you that...I really did like kissing you last night."

He looked up sheepishly at Sherlock, cheeks pink, almost whispering, "I really did."

No answer from his flatmate, just non-commital silence as they both stood in front of the flat door. Sherlock let go of the doorknob. 

"...and just hear me out, ok? If you didn't, that's alright, it's fine, perfectly fine--- we can just not do it or talk about it further and it's ok, I'll just forget about it." John shrugged.

"But if you did...." John smiled.

"I'd like to do it again."

This time Sherlock raised his eyes to look at John. John thought he looked tired, like maybe he hadn't slept at all last night.

"Do you really have a meeting with Lestrade?" John asked quietly.

"No." Sherlock smiled at him. 

They both laughed.


	9. Salve

John was silent. He looked over at Mycroft and didn't know what to say. He had lived with Sherlock for about a year now as a flatmate, but this new thing that was going on between them was very, very new. So new, in fact, that the boys hadn't yet defined what was going on even to each other. They were still dancing around each other, just as recently as the night before. 

John had no experience with being physical with another bloke. He wasn't totally sure that Sherlock had any experience being physical with anyone--he never said. Here was Mycroft dishing on his baby brother. A previous relationship. John was stunned at this turn of events. 

"Could I have another glass of water?" John asked in a small voice and Mycroft signaled for the waiter.

John's head was swimming, He needed to slow down on his wine drinking in order to keep a clear head. He needed to ask Mycroft more questions. A previous relationship? With who? When? When was it over? What happened? Where is this other person? Overdose? Drugs? Rehab? It was just too much. 

John downed the water glass.

"I know you must have questions, John." Mycroft began. "But let me assure you that Sherlock has been out of rehab for quite sometime now--it's been about a year--and working with Scotland Yard keeps him busy. Sherlock having nothing to do can be quite dangerous."

John nodded dumbly.

``````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````` Sherlock hated the monthly meeting with Mycroft. At various times he tried to get out of it, or phone it in, but Mycroft was insistent. Sherlock's monthly stipend was often ;held up' so he would have more motivation to visit his brother at his office. Mycroft felt much more reassured when he could look at his brother, 'in carne'. "Hello, Mycroft," Sherlock had just breezed in one morning unbidden. When Mycroft's secretary announced his brother's arrival, Mycroft was afraid of what he'd see. Would Sherlock be starving, strung out, sleepless and in desperate need of money? But his brother looked fine--well even. He may have put on half a stone since he'd seen him last. He looked the very picture of health. Mycroft was immediately suspicious. "And to what do I owe this pleasure, Sherlock? Are you here to ask for additional funds? You don't waltz into Vauxhall Cross without strong encouragement." Mycroft immediately put away the file he was studying to give his brother his full attention. "I can't visit my brother? Now Mycroft, that's not very fraternal." Sherlock crossed the room with a bounce in his step and immediately went for the bar cart, but didn't pour himself a drink. "You never come to my office unless I threaten to remove your toenails with a plier or some other ghastly form of torture, so out with it." Sherlock was ignoring Mycroft and rummaging around the bar cart unsuccessfully. "What are you doing, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked, irritated. "Looking for biscuits. This is where you hide them, correct?" Sherlock stopped and stared at the bar cart in deep thought, hands on his hips. "Ahh! Ice chest!" Sherlock removed the leather lid and reached in for a package of gingersnaps. "So predictable." he scoffed, rolling his eyes. Mycroft knew when he was defeated. He sighed and picked up the file and pretended to read. He cleared his throat, "So. How's The Yard?" "Boring. nothing's on lately." Sherlock said as he crossed the room and draped him self crossways over an upholstered chair, munching. "Having time on your hands doesn't always turn out in your favor, brother mine. Last time I saw you--your nose was bloodied. You came in from the pub with your flatmate, John?" Mycroft again was pretending--that this was not a direct inquiry. "Yes, John. Next subject." It didn't take Mycroft Holmes any time at all to put together that his brother's smooth functioning of late was the direct result of the very person that he refused to discuss. He really didn't need much more additional information.


	10. A Break in the Case

John knew enough about Sherlock to realize that he did not do what he did not want to do. So, John's goal was not to not press Sherlock at all. Sherlock would have to make the next move. John, having already made a move physically and verbally---decided to just let things be. 

A few weeks went by. The boys were treading carefully around each other, wary. John went to class. Sherlock worked for The Yard on a few small cases but he did not ask John to come along. Sherlock was quiet. There were times when John was studying at the kitchen table and Sherlock was reading in the sitting room that John looked up to see Sherlock looking at him. Caught, Sherlock immediately looked away. 

It was driving John mad. One Friday night, after class was over, John asked Sherlock to dinner. Sherlock didn't answer. 

"I'm not going to bite. Promise." John said. "It's just dinner."

Sherlock agreed and they ended up at a small Italian place in Soho where Sherlock knew the owner. The owner was boisterous and friendly. He put a candle on the table and offered them dinner on the house. 

John wanted things to be lighthearted. "He thinks this is a date, Sherlock." he said, smiling.

"Is it?" Sherlock said distractedly, almost irritated. He was looking down at the menu and not at John. 

"You tell me." John took a gulp of wine and looked up at Sherlock.

"John, you're not gay." Angelo came over to the table and placed a glass of white wine down in front of Sherlock.

They both looked up briefly at Angelo, conversation stopped. He smiled and walked away. 

"And you...are." Ventured John, raising one eyebrow, on no other information than a hunch.

"Yes." Said Sherlock, finally looking up and looking John in the eye.

"That's fine, Sherlock-- it's all fine." Verbal sparring was not John's forte, he decided he was not going to try to be clever or witty, just honest. 

"For who, John?" Sherlock's eyes were clouded, John could not read them. He seemed petulant. At least John had him talking. 

"For everyone--for me--for you." John paused. "I don't know why it matters, really. I don't have to be gay to like you, do I? I don't have to be gay to kiss you, do I?"

Sherlock was quiet. 

At this point, John had worked off his right shoe. Under the table, he reached his sock covered big toe to touch the inner side of Sherlock's ankle. "What do I have to be to want to sleep with you?"

A slow smile spread over Sherlock's lips. "My god, John, you are persistent."

After a bottle of wine and dinner, they walked back to the flat. John wanted to reach out to hold Sherlock's hand, but settled for the occasional shoulder bump as they walked along. At the front door of the flat, John stood close to Sherlock as he fumbled with the keys. Once inside, in the darkened vestibule, front door shut, Sherlock turned towards him and backed John up against the door. The hallway light was not on, but John could see a glint of silver light from Sherlock's eyes. 

"Are you sure, John?" he asked, voice heavy. He leaned down and tenderly kissed him. John was surprised. Sherlock leaned on the door with his left arm above John's head. He didn't give John a chance to answer. His lips were soft and wet and John could taste the wine from dinner on Sherlock's hot, sweet breath. As a answer, John opened his mouth and reached his left arm up to Sherlock's neck, pulling him closer.

Sherlock reached with his right hand inside John's open coat to touch his taunt, muscular stomach and John gave a small moan. They couldn't do this here. The flat was so close. Here in the hallway, anyone could come out of their flat and see them.

Sherlock grabbed John's hand and led him to the stairs.


End file.
